Page 97 of Kazimir

Not quite.

For one more moment, I let myself stand in the wreckage with my mate’s arm around me and the taste of divine truth still bright on the back of my tongue. I let myself feel the stunned, aching gratitude of still existing. Of being seen. Of not having been broken into silence after all.

Kazimir bent and pressed his mouth to my bruised throat with exquisite care, right over the place Sariel’s hand had nearly closed me off from the world. Not a bite. Not hunger. A kiss.

A vow in another language.

I closed my eyes.

And in the heart of ruined Obsidian, with wolves and witches and vampires and demons moving around us through the aftermath, I believed for the first time that whatever I had lost before waking naked in a park did not have to be the only story that defined me.

Heaven itself had said so.

Chapter 26

Kazimir

Istood at the center of Obsidian’s main floor and looked upon a miracle I would once have called improbable, if not impossible.

The club had been restored stone by stone, beam by beam, ward by ward after battle tore through it, yet tonight repair was the least of what had been accomplished here. The room I had designed for appetite, negotiation, and controlled vice had been remade into something almost unrecognizable beneath candlelight, greenery, and flowers chosen with ceremonial precision. Pride moved through me in a low, steady current. Not because the space was beautiful, though it was. Because it endured. Because I had endured. Because in a matter of minutes Devon would walk toward me through the heart of the world I had built and make it hers.

Obsidian had always excelled at transformation. That was one of its purposes. Human eyes were turned away at the threshold. Supernatural appetites were refined, channeled, and managed once they crossed it. Yet this evening the club had become something even I had not fully imagined when plans were first laid before me. Lush greenery framed the stage in layered arches—dark ivy, eucalyptus, and delicate trailing vines threaded around frames that had been polished until they caught the light like black water. White lilies opened in pale, elegant stars among them. Black callas curved like satin flames. Red roses had been worked in with a restraint I appreciated; not enough to become gaudy, only enough to lend the arrangement blood, devotion, and dynasty.

My gaze moved, as it always did, to matters of security and hierarchy before resting anywhere sentimental. Old habits survived even joy.

The Supreme Supernatural Council occupied the front rows with the inevitable posture of those accustomed to being watched. Every wolf king from every territory occupied the first two rows. This included the former Iron Valor enforcer, now King of the Midwest Territory, Bridger “Menace” Hardin, and his mate Savannah.

The new Demon King Adramal sat a measured distance away, his dark suit immaculate, his substantial body held in the kind of rigid discipline that announced effort without admitting it. He had come to be seen. I respected the calculation. Respectability, once lost, was slower to rebuild than stonework. He understood the value of public alignment, and tonight he aligned himself with my house before wolves, witches, angels, and every ambitious observer in the room.

Beside and behind him sat the major coven leaders draped in authority of their own. Among them; Shasta Tierney the Emberthorn High Flame Caller, Nikki Caufield the Mistress of Shadows from the Gloamreach Coven, and Starweaver Fallon from the Astral Spire Coven. They had accepted my invitation because this union mattered. They had also come because after what had occurred in Obsidian, none of them wished to be the only power absent from the room.

The Iron Valor contingent occupied an entire section with the contained solidity of a battle-tested force trying very hard to behave like wedding guests. Bronc Baucaum sat with Juliet beside him; his size and command impossible to miss. His black-and-silver wolf would not have looked out of place guarding a throne room, yet the way he leaned ever so slightly toward his Luna made plain what his true center was. Juliet, with blond waves that were a touch defiant against the refinement, wore grace she no longer tried to hide simply because it had once made her vulnerable. She had become exactly what hardship ought to fear in a woman.

The Iron Valor Pack had faced battles of its own in the past year, and I had been instrumental in offering them help. Their Luna being Lucia's best friend, and the honor by which their Alpha ran their pack had made Iron Valor an ally of mine for years. Now that Ryder was a Kozlov prince, it was fitting that they were finally joined as family.

Maddie, Bronc’s sister, was there as well, chestnut waves and restless energy banked for the occasion with only partial success. She looked at the room as if committing every detail to memory while pretending she was not impressed. She was restless and seemed somewhat out of place next to Juliet.

The Iron Valor Chaplin's mate, a witch named Aspen who is a bakery owner, offered to bake the cake for the ceremony, surpassing what anyone sensible would have requested. Five tiers rose in elegant graduated perfection, iced in pearl-white with delicate hand-piped vines trailing down the sides. Sugar flowers echoed the ceremony arrangements—lilies, roses, black callas rendered so skillfully they seemed almost too beautiful to cut. Gold detailing had been applied with a restrained hand, outlining edges and catching light without vulgarity. The cake looked less like dessert and more like an object one might consecrate.

At its base scurried Aspen's familiar, Oscar B. Wild, in formal attire so tiny and exacting that for one treacherous instant I nearly smiled. The prairie dog was muttering in impeccable British tones while adjusting what appeared to be a miniature place card stand with the severity of a butler correcting an incompetent footman.

“No, no, catastrophic,” I heard him say to no one visible. “The angle is vulgar. We are not savages.”

A nearby server bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh.

It occurred to me—not for the first time—that my wedding featured a king of angels, a demon monarch, wolf sovereigns, witches of formidable power, and a prairie dog in evening wear managing final pastry-related operations with tyrannical dignity. Had anyone described such an evening to me a century earlier, I might have had them examined for poisoning.

My attention shifted to a darker matter.

Along one side, seated in the place allotted them by ancient custom rather than present worth, were the elder councilors; two of whom had expected their long service to insulate them from consequence. It had not. Their betrayal would be handled with the patience due to politics and lineage. Tonight they sat in sober formalwear beneath the warded glow of Obsidian and watched history proceed. They had been granted attendance as a final courtesy to the house they had served poorly. Tomorrow, that courtesy would expire. They just weren't aware of it yet. Or perhaps they suspected something. They hadn't hidden their behavior.

I let my gaze rest on them until both lowered their eyes.

Good.

Footsteps approached over the runner behind me, controlled and familiar. I did not need to turn to know who it would be. Maksym came first, as he often did, presence contained and formidable. Taras moved beside him with the smooth economy that made lesser men underestimate the danger in him. Bohdan followed, immaculate as ever, his elegance sharpened tonight into something almost ceremonial. When I turned, all three wore matching black suits with purple shirts, chosen to echo Obsidian’s colors without descending into theatricality. My sons were all handsome. I did not mention this to them. They knew it well enough.

“You approve,” Bohdan said, glancing around the room.